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Friday, October 18, 2013

On the metro...

Plenty of seats open on the metro. Friday afternoon is
basically the weekend, some people had half days, others won’t be off for
another hour or so. My feet are tired. Wednesday I taught for twelve hours
without a break. Yesterday I taught ten. It’s not ideal, but I’m in demand. That’s why I took those difficult days… I’m
in demand. Doctors, engineers, scientists, asked for me by name, because I can
teach them English, I can say
the words and understand what part of speech their word derived from Greek or
Latin is. After 5 hours of teaching English, it is nearly impossible use the
language correctly any more. “Can you explain me the meaning?” I’m pretty sure
that’s wrong… but I can’t for the life of me remember why, or how to correct them.
I’m by metro to home. I correct this
phrase half a dozen times a day, but it’s all I can think as I sit in my oddly warm
plastic seat.

A man hops on the train at the last second. Damn, he has an accordion. I pause my
audiobook, and roll my eyes. Musicians
seem to prefer line five, plenty of tourists use it to get to and from the city
center, and tourists are much more generous. The accordionist looks around the
car, only five of us. He leans against the door of the moving train, exhausted.
I smile to myself, and hit play on my audiobook. The accordionist exits the car
no doubt to go pester another car out of their money.

I text my friends, we were supposed to go out tonight, but
Ben is sick and I want to cook him some chicken soup. Luckily someone else
already suggested we change the plan, so I get out of it guilt free.

The train rumbles to a stop again. Only one man slinks on to
the train, closing the train door behind him. Despite most of the seats being
empty, he sits next to me, tucking his belongings next to him on the floor of
the train. I glance at him, uncomfortable with his choice of seats. He looks
scared. I scan him and his belongings, deciding whether or not I want to change
my seat. He’s the accordionist. I look out the window of the train, trying to
figure out what he’s hiding from, and see a neon colored security officer
scanning the cars of the train.

The whistle blows, the doors latch. The officer and the accordionist
lock eyes. The officer puts his hands on his hips, pointedly stares at the
musician as we slide away. The accordionist stares back at the officer, his
face frozen in distress. The officer falls out of view of, as the train slips
into the dark tunnels of the metro. The accordionist looks around the train,
taking in the surroundings he failed to register in his moment of flight. He
locks eyes with me, and I burst into laughter, uncontrollable, stich in my side
laughter. The expression on his face goes from fear, to confusion, to glee, and
he joins me. The other passengers on the train stare at us out of the corners
of their eyes, hoping we’re not contagious.

The doors open at the next station, a flood of people cram their
way onto the train. The accordionist gathers up his belongings, and prepares
for his performance. He turns to face me, winks, and begins to play. He is
wonderful, the adrenaline, or the outburst have enlivened him, and he plays his
tunes cheerfully to a bewildered crowd.

I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes, and pick up my
belongings. The train pulls into my station, and I smile as I walk the short
distance home.